You have no idea, he says.

His voice is hard like a frozen wave.

When you look down.

When he looks away.

What do you do.

When you’ve made pot roast

a thousand Sundays,

washed his socks

and kissed him

and left millions of strands of your hair

on his clothes.

When all you had is never was.

What do you do.

You have no idea, he says.

He could wiggle his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

Make your cat, Swoosie, sit up and beg.

He could melt you and put you in ice cube trays.

What do you do.

When the curtain parts to an empty stage.

When you pick up the script

and words fall from the page.

You have no idea, he says.

You thought you did.

What does that make you now.

When it pulls you down to where it lives.

When it forgets the last time it was fed.

I guess a log is in place, given that many things have happened. As someone else said: I apologize for the long update, I didn’t have time to write a short one.

In no particular order:

• Life is still hectic, although in a more positive way. I picked up a live interpretation gig for a few hours per week. Believe it or not, it’s supremely tiring, but it pays well. I’m still looking for a more permanent job, though.
• Word Enchiladas are indeed coming back, but I

It was the first day of summer

several clouds drifted overhead 

There was a white truck on the side of the road                                                                                                                  halfway stuck in a ditch

after a few weeks the highway patrol put a yellow sticker on it 

the…